


cacoethes

by wtfmulder



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 07:28:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15881400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtfmulder/pseuds/wtfmulder
Summary: Prompt: Can you write something where Mulder watches Scully get off and she knows he's watching, before they have sex? Set s6.





	cacoethes

As the road ahead thins out into just a skeleton, and the forest to either side of them thickens, crowds against the rusted blue and tan 1965 Ford F100 so that the branches poke through the windows with the crisp September air, Mulder figures Scully has come to the right conclusion. They are on another one of those pesky, illicit X-Files — not the shit shoveling she’d been expecting.

Their generous, albeit long winded driver, a squat, white-haired man who looks fit to hang with the Keebler Elves, talks himself a storm while Mulder looks down at Scully, wagging his eyebrows at her pouting face. A couple hours in, when she’s elbow deep in the fascinating guts of the area’s professed zombie deer, she’ll start to remember how good it feels to be bad. All it takes is a little time and maneuvering. She’s a lot like the truck that way, stalling and sputtering her metallic complaints, but you turn the key just right…

He takes a sip of burning hot coffee from his thermos and spreads his legs in a futile attempt to make himself comfortable, having been made the unlikely middle in the truck’s three-seated cabin. Scully had glared at him when he motioned for her to climb in after Mr. Albert, their chatty host. She’d probably guessed at his deceit even then, and made him fold himself up origami style as revenge.

The truck bounces wildly, sending Mulder jostling between the unphased form of Mr. Albert and Scully, who’s locked herself so tightly her knuckles are white. She shoves him back, a strong, deliberate push just shy of causing a crash.

“What was  _that_?” She breathes, voice filled with shock.

“We gotta —“ thud “— long an’ bumpy road ahead of us —“ thud thud thud “— hope you ain’t prone to seasickness. It’s like choppy waters out here.”

The car bounces again and rolls over a series of large rocks. Scully gasps, nails biting into her jeans. When her eyes close, that niggling of concern borders on full blown anxiety, and Mulder leans in to lightly touch her knee. She startles.

“Now we ain’t seen no other creature like this, just the deer, ya see? But it’s gettin’ to damn near everyone of ‘em—“

“Are you okay?” Mulder asks her quietly as Mr. Albert rambles on. She pushes his hand away with a short jerk of her head, eyes trained firmly on the rough low canopy of orange and brown ahead of them. 

“I’m fine, Mulder,” she insists, her voice barely a whisper.

Her refusal to look at him seals the deal. He’s about to ask Mr. Albert to pull over, get them all out of the truck to stretch their legs, get some air and let him find out what the hell is going on with her, but he’s interrupted when the truck hits another broken patch of road, sending them all bobbing about like apples.

Scully moans, then claps a hand over her mouth  
.   
Wide-eyed, Mulder stares at her. Their surroundings bleed away, the sounds of rustling trees and the old man’s voice dying out to be replaced with the shortness of her breath. It pounds under his skin with his heartbeat, with the cold air whipping at their faces, matching it.

He lets his eyes roam over the taut length of her body, from her tan suede-covered squared shoulders, to her heeled boots digging into the floor of the truck. Her legs stretch out all the way, then her feet are dragging back, digging, scrabbling. She strains to suspend herself a half-inch above the seat, but the road throws her back down. She curls away from the seat in a perfect arch.

Mulder darts a look to his left, finding Mr. Albert blissfully unaware of his lack of audience. He can’t bring his eyes back to Scully fast enough. When he does, her big blue eyes are open, glassy, bright, lightened with surprise and shame. Her cheeks are flushed — would be hot to the touch were cup them, stroke them with the flat of his thumb.

He stares at her in wonder as they pass through a mile-long stretch of smooth dirt, unable to stop himself. All the thinking-blood of his body finds its home in his dick, straining insistently against his zipper.

With the terrain change, she rests, sinking into herself in an attempt to control her breathing. A shudder runs through her, her shoulders trembling. Then the ground dips, and she sucks in an alarmed gasp.  

He reaches out. A light touch, right to her outer knee. When the next patch hits, they’re looking into each other’s eyes — hers uncertain, unfocused. His encouraging.

Pleading.

Up next is a huge section of thick, protruding branches that he assumes she takes straight to the clit, and she’s either all in or defenseless to the onslaught. The rattling of the vehicle is so strong he feels it, underneath his thighs, his ass, his lower back. She breaks their gaze, kicks out, streams out air through her lips where she’s biting them, and his grip tightens. Her head slams back against the headrest, nodding from left to right, and her hair tangles, a nest of bright, soft red.

She’s rubbing her thighs together, wiggling her tiny hips, her non-silencing hand white-knuckling her seatbelt strap. The vehicle accelerates. Mr. Albert explains why to empty air. Neither of his guests can conjure a coherent thought when the cabin bursts into jarring tremors, and the crackle of spark between their bodies threatens the drying autumn surrounding them.

She licks away at her chapstick, arching her back. He knows what that will do for her. When the next patch of gravel hits, her lower half is pressed firmly to her seat, her pelvis tilted downward. Her hand holding in her noise slams down to clutch at his knee, and he watches her try to ride out the sensation.

He adores her. He adores her. His adoration is so strong it’s unspeakable. He suppresses admissions of gratitude as they come to him, helping her along whenever the opportunity arises. Her fingers flex around his kneecap, her thigh twitches against his own. He presses against her as much as the tight quarters would allow, his spread knees pushing her legs together. She cries out, and his hand covers her mouth out of pure instinct.

When she tries to lick her lips, her tongue grazes the seam of his tight fingers and he fears he might pass out and miss the best part. But he doesn’t. She shakes, and she brings her own hand up to cover his. He feels the slick, gritted flats of her front teeth, her body seizing where it’s smushed between him and the door. She laughs. God, she laughs. He touches it and holds it in his hand. It travels all throughout her. It stops, eventually. Eventually she calms down.

Mr. Albert delivers them to their cabin with a tip of his neon orange trucker hat. “Please, for the love of god, kill those fuckin’ deer,” is his cheery goodbye. He’s five miles away and they’re a five minute walk from their quarters before Mulder’s scooping Scully up from behind and carrying her off, her laughter and admonishments trailing behind them, along with the sound of crunching leaves and howling wind.


End file.
